Perdition
by Ceasefire
Summary: [Royai, heavy manga spoilers] Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye, on the concept of the Seven Deadly Sins and those things that they will never atone for.


A one-shot divided into seven sub-headings for you. **Beware of the rampant manga spoilers; they go right up to the most recent chapter, 57.** I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.

* * *

_**I. Superbia**_

Sin was not merely a religious pretence coined hundreds of years ago by the forebears of the people who had resided in the East. It was a disposition of the heart and a sense of being that one fell into after years of realizing that you'd been straying down the wrong path but never quite done anything about it.

For Riza Hawkeye's superior officer, Roy Mustang, it was merely a state of being, and one that he would live with until his dying day, and when you were an Alchemist in the middle of bitter warfare born from a concept you did not believe in and that could never be given a rational explanation, every day held the bitter essence of death and the stench of blood.

The single damnation or salvation for your mind was often that it wasn't your own.

Once, when he was poised above an injured Ishvarite, ready to snap his fingers and unleash Hellfire upon the faithful, he had been questioned as to why he had chosen this path.

And for one brief moment, he had hesitated.

Hesitated just long enough for the Ishvarite to aim his gun.

Hesitated just long enough for Hawkeye to ready her rifle.

Mustang stood, anchored to his own pain-induced shock with a gash in his arm that wept blood as red as the fire he wielded. The Ishvarite lay dead on the ground, martyred for his faith.

Hawkeye touched his shoulder and he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Have pride in the value of your life, Sir," Hawkeye stated, reaching into her light brown overcoat for a bandage.

Mustang was still too stunned to reply.

_**II. Gula**_

Supplies had been slow for the last few weeks, and Riza Hawkeye stares at the two pieces of plain, gritty bread in her hands as though this meal is the feast of a god. She tears the crust off the first piece and savours the rough, stale tang of the food on her tongue, and then begins to chews through the white center of the bread, barely stopping to swallow.

She feels as though she is starving. Everyone feels as if they are going to die here, by one way or the other.

Mustang was out on a mission while the last of the food is given out. He missed the basic priority of human need that everyone here felt was a blessing.

She offered the second piece of stale bread to her commander, and he politely declined, telling her to eat it herself even though she can see his ribs protruding from under his shirt.

Every bite of food she ate after that held the bitter texture of guilt for the things she could not see.

_**III. Avarice**_

They are away from the desert now, but still in the East. They both receive promotions; he is now a Lieutenant Colonel and she is his faithful Second Lieutenant. She also receives his mark on her skin, and she keeps that to herself.

Rumour and treacherous whispers heeded from under the breaths of staff say that Mustang is conspiring to assume the role of Fuhrer.

They say this is a sign of greed and yearning. Greed for power, greed for prestige, greed for riches.

They do not understand his motives.

No one would want to live through a repeat of the Ishvar War. Perhaps, in theory, this notion is selfish, but Hawkeye, and Hughes, and Armstrong, and every other poor soul who spent the best of their younger years in the desert will understand that one more sin is worth never having to see the anger in hatred in red eyes again.

_**IV. Ira**_

That morning, Mustang had watched them lowering his best friend into the ground, and had made the decision to investigate the higher ups in the name of gain and vengeance.

She had told him not to mingle his personal and professional lives, but for him there was really no private and professional; Hughes, Havoc, Fuery, Breda, Farman and herself were the most important people in his life.

For anyone who caused them harm, there would be death. Such is the nature of wrath.

The sad thing, in her opinion, was that Mustang was not made to be a killer.

_**V. Acedia**_

The Colonel never appeared to work hard. He always seemed to be talking on the phone to women, or generally slacking off.

"Elizabeth, so nice to hear from you! I heard you're growing your hair out..."

Riza's lips curved into a small smile.

"Why yes, Mister Roy. However, I'm afraid it might get in the way while myself and Jacqueline run the shop..."

"Oh, nonsense!" Mustang's chair audibly creaked in the background as he reclined, "I'm sure it will look fine..."

"I'm sorry, Mister Roy," Riza stated, her finger readying on the trigger of the rifle in her hands, "But I'm afraid I must go."

"A guest?"

"A guest."

_**VI. Invidia**_

Now, holding the order of transfer that the Fuhrer's personal assistant had just given her, she looks back upon herself as a young woman, perhaps a little too young for her own good, perhaps a little too in love for her own good.

She looks back on these times and yearns for them, yearns for the closeness, yearns for the familiarity and the good times and the bad. She looks back upon her own reflection and envies its image, craves its mentality, desires the comparative simplicity.

"You cannot refuse."

With her hands shaking, she salutes and simply goes back to waiting for him.

_**VII. Luxuria**_

He had come back to her earlier that day, and now she feels possessive, vigilant, and reverent.

He obviously feels the same, and it shows as he approaches her, slides his arms around her waist as she leans heavily on the kitchen counter when he pushes against her and presses a kiss to her neck. He traces his own mark through her shirt with amazing accuracy, despite it being nearly six years since he even designed the array.

They are exhausted from the events of the past day, and simply fall together in the end, in a mix of desire and lust and love and relief. He still traces the fine lines on her back afterwards without even looking, his fingers moving delicately over her skin as they kissed, tugged on each other's lips and revelled in the moment.

To love another person was the true nature and image of the mythical divine.

**END**

* * *

The seven 'categories' in this fic are the names of the Seven Sins in Latin, in the following order: Pride, Gluttony, Greed, Wrath, Sloth, Envy and Lust. I hope you enjoyed this fic! 


End file.
